


For Your Record

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Coffee, Coffee Is Basically a Drug for Peter, Drugged Sex, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Peter Parker gets what he wants, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-07 04:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: The first time Peter Parker tries coffee, he thinks he’s dying.AKA, Peter finds out about a spider-power side-effect he was not expecting. Also, porn.





	For Your Record

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labocat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labocat/gifts).

> You said to write a fic I’ve been looking for an excuse to write. Ta-dah. _And_ it helped with the theme! And Peter’s powers are fun for sex!
> 
> Not IW/Endgame/FFH compliant. Tony and Pepper are broken up.
> 
> Dubious consent in as much as drugs of a sort are involved, but the person who is high is fully on board with the goings on.

The first time Peter tries coffee, he thinks he’s dying. A spike of paranoia seizes his body as his senses go haywire. The din of the cafeteria, packed with freshmen who are still eager enough to wake up in time for breakfast, turns up past one hundred, each distinct clatter of a knife and roaring laugh sending a shock down his spine.

After what feels like eternity, but might actually have been only a minute or two, the adrenaline simmers into a calm that sinks deep into his muscles, until he feels melted in his chair. He decides he’s probably not dying, but he may have been drugged. That makes more sense. Everything moves slowly. The conversation of his friends—if that’s what you call the knot of people who’ve been nervously travelling around campus together because they happen to live on the same hall—is usually rapid-fire and showy, but now it seems full of holes, the connection between one sentence and the next, one _word _and the next, stretching so thin that meaning slips through the gaps.

His heart jumps, knocking at his chest as his lips grasp, uselessly, at words. Panicked, he pulls out his phone. It’s a struggle, hands unsteady and tense, fingers lingering to stoke the surprising smoothness of the screen, but he manages to send an SOS to the one person he can think of who might be able to help: Mr. Stark.

Twenty minutes later, he stumbles his way to the arch that marks the campus entry. He shades his eyes against a sun turned too bright, breathing sharply through his nose to try to force his heart from rabbiting in his chest like he’s on top of an invisible jet again. An uncharacteristically nondescript car honks at him from across the street; when he opens the door he’s surprised to find Mr. Stark sprawled in the back seat, looking casual in jeans, a dark blazer, and the sunglasses he never seems to take off these days. The front is empty: one of SI’s experimental driverless cars, set to hit the market next year.

“Whoa,” Peter gasps, throwing himself into the back with such lack of coordination that he lands half in Mr. Stark’s lap. “I didn’t expect you to show up in person.”

Mr. Stark grabs his chin, holding his face back so he can look him in the eyes. The unexpected touch sends a shot of pure arousal through Peter’s body, settling in his gut in a way that makes him squirm. His chest rises and falls in a desperate attempt to catch breath; he can feel his face like it’s burning off. 

“Look at your pupils. You’re definitely on something,” Mr. Stark says, voice rough around the edges, as if he’s upset. Maybe he noticed Peter’s reaction? If he did, he doesn’t say anything else about it. He raises his arm, gauntlet forming around his wrist so he can scan Peter’s face and body. He taps his glasses, frowning. “Huh. Well, whatever it is isn’t toxic. Would you prefer to go to a hospital to be treated by real doctors, or my lab to be treated by me, who is not a doctor but is a genius who already knows about your powers?”

“I don’t think you’re presenting that as much of a choice, Mr. Stark,” Peter jokes. Tries to joke. The words get sticky in his mouth and his usual patter, the bantering rhythm they’ve learned to fall into so easily over the years, gets lost on the way out. “Lab, please.”

“Lab it is,” Tony says, glancing at the roof of the car. “Hit it.”

The car jerks to life around them, steering into the New York traffic with the overconfidence of a taxi driver. Peter, a useless lump of loose muscles unprepared for the sudden movement, is tossed closer into Mr. Stark. He scrambles for purchase, hands clutching blindly, until—

Holy shit.

He freezes, adrenaline shooting clarity into his muddled mind. His hand definitely just hit Mr. Stark’s hard-on. A hard-on, which he has, right now, in this car, with Peter draped all over him.

In a move that Peter can only explain as his brain completely forgetting how to function on anything but lust, he brushes his hand back to the same spot; a quick movement to make sure he really had felt what he thought he felt. This time he focuses through the mush that is his senses and hears Mr. Stark’s breath hitch and make a choking sound in the back of this throat.

Suddenly, strong fingers pull his hand away and his limp body is re-positioned to sitting, though Mr. Stark doesn’t stop him from remaining slumped against his shoulder.

“Let’s pretend that didn’t happen. Please disregard my body being unable to ignore when an attractive person literally falls into my lap.” Mr. Stark’s words vibrate through his chest and down Peter’s spine, spreading out as a tingle under his skin. He squirms, toes curling and back arching. Mr. Stark sighs. “Just, breathe, Pete. Focus on breathing. Like meditation, but instead of aiming for enlightenment we’re targeting staying calm for twenty blocks. Think you can do that for me?”

Peter’s mind is still stuck several sentences back, on the part where Mr. Stark implied he’s attractive, but he nods, rubbing his nose into the smooth skin of Mr. Stark’s neck. “I’ll do anything you tell me to, sir,” he mummers. A faint warning rings through his ears, part of his brain that’s been tamped down trying to flag that he’s going to regret saying this later. He ignores it. “You must know that. Anything.”

Mr. Stark makes a strangled sound, like a moan cut off at the knees. “Okay,” he says, slowly, drawn out, as if he’s trying to hold back a dangerous animal. “Well, what I’m telling you to do right now is breathe deeply and stop talking. Please.”

The _please_ is sharp and desperate. Okay. Yeah, he can breathe. Breathing is easy. And so he does, inhaling the scent of Mr. Stark’s cologne, earthy and undercut with spice. It mixes weirdly with his laundry detergent, which clings to his t-shirt, slightly floral. A little too much, actually, making Peter dizzy with competing input. Under all that, though, is skin and sweat, musky. Delicious. Something more primal than thought tells Peter he wants to _taste _that smell, needs to, so he sticks out his tongue, swiping it up Mr. Stark’s neck to his jaw.

With a shout, Mr. Stark jumps and shoves Peter away, sending him into the car door. His head slams against the window and he lets out a surprised whine, upset and confused to suddenly be surrounded by cold, empty air rather than Mr. Stark’s body.

“Oh god, kid, I’m sorry,” Mr. Stark says, but when he reaches out a hand it’s not to comfort Peter but to warn him back. “Please, can you just stay over there? Just…breathe over there, okay? We’ll be at the lab soon.”

No longer commanding and in control, he sounds almost scared. Peter, fighting back tears, confused and salty in his throat, nods. He pulls in another deep breath, and tries not to panic.

***

The car ride seems to last forever, but eventually it’s over. Mr. Stark helps his out, rests his hand on his back as he guides him to the lab. But the touch is tentative in a way his touch never is, fingers barely grazing. It’s probably meant to prevent Peter from losing control again—his mind has settled enough to realize what happened, hot shame flushing up the back of his neck—but if that’s the goal, it’s not working. Peter can still taste him on his tongue, and his body is still throbbing and open, taking in everything around him without a filter. Even Mr. Stark’s lightest touch is a beacon. It takes every scrap of self-control Peter has left not to throw himself back into his arms.

In the lab Mr. Stark is all business, keeping his sentences clipped and professional as he clears a desk for Peter to sit on. The metal is hard and cold, sending mixed signals down Peter’s legs: he can’t tell if he wants to get naked and spread out across the cool surface to calm the fever running through him, or if he wants to hop off and find a softer substance to disappear into.

“You doing okay?” Mr. Stark asks as Peter wriggles, trying to get comfortable.

“I…don’t know,” Peter admits. He sounds weird, unsteady and thin. “Everything is all…different. Like my senses are way, way up, but also they’re all muddled and turned around?”

“Have you ever experienced anything like this?” Mr. Stark is attaching some sort of sensor to Peter’s wrist, a band that squeezes; Peter wonders if the question is meant to distract him. If so, it’s not working any better than the light touch had: having Mr. Stark so near, his fingers brushing along his wrist as he straps the device and checks it’s in place, is enough to make Peter instantly hard again. “Maybe when you first got your powers?”

Peter does his best to block out his need and answer honestly, scrolling back through his memories. He shakes his head. “Powers were overwhelming but this is, this is different. It’s like…it’s like something is distorting everything.”

Mr. Stark nods, jaw tight in the way it gets when he’s furious. “Okay. I think you’re probably right that you’ve been drugged. Which means there’s either a really stupid college student or a really dangerous villain I need to kill. Can you walk me through your day? Maybe we can figure out how they did it.”

Peter does. There’s not a lot to tell, he’d only had time to wake up, get ready—“Maybe they drugged my toothpaste?”—and roll into the cafeteria for breakfast. “I had my normal oatmeal and berries and, oh, I decided to try coffee for the first time, maybe someone drugged the coffee? But no one else was freaking out and other people definitely had it…”

“Wait,” Mr. Stark cuts in. His stance changes, back straightening and eyes lighting up with the spark they get when he’s onto a good idea. “Did you say you’ve never had coffee before?”

Peter nods. “Yeah, May went off it when I was still in middle school, and I just never did?”

“F.R.I., look up the effects of coffee on spiders,” Mr. Stark says, leaving Peter’s side to go to the nearest monitor. Less than a minute of skimming later he announces, “New theory: no one drugged you, and you should probably stay away from coffee from now on.” He throws a couple of documents wide so Peter can see. “Now _this _is a shitty superpower side-effect. Honestly, I don’t know how you’re going to survive.”

***

Fifteen more minutes of reading, and Mr. Stark is confident his theory is right. Peter agrees, but knowing what’s going on doesn’t prevent his heart from racing. The room continues to melt around the edges. “What now?” he asks. He’s made things so awkward, but Mr. Stark isn’t going to kick him out, right? He’s not sure he could get home alone. “I don’t want to bother you but I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Bother me?” Mr. Stark frowns, approaching, but staying far enough back that he’s not quite in arm’s reach. “You could never bother me, kid. To answer your question, now we’re going to keep you here to monitor your reactions. It’ll be good to know, just in case you accidently ingest coffee again.”

“Really?” Peter hates how delighted he sounds. How desperate and needy. “You’re not going to make me leave? Not even after—?”

Mr. Stark swallows. Hard. “I thought we agreed aren’t going to talk about that.” His heart is racing, Peter can hear it, pounding almost as fast as his own.

_Unable to ignore when an attractive person literally falls into my lap_. That’s what Mr. Stark had said before. Peter’s mind has cleared enough to put that into place, to follow the implications, and the chemicals in his veins are filling him with a reckless need that forms into a plan he would never have the guts for otherwise. Not even close.

“Yeah, we did,” he agrees. He peels his fingers from where they’ve been clutching the table and slowly brings his hand to his dick, which is still painfully hard, fighting against the confines of his jeans. He presses down, and, with a boldness he never imagined, looks Mr. Stark directly in the eyes as he says, “But if you want to know the effects, the effect is that I am really, really horny.”

Mr. Stark stares at him like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Peter takes a moment to glance down. Mr. Stark is hard, too, dick long and thick, outlined clearly in his jeans. 

Peter flicks his eyes back up. “I mean, I always want you, sir, but right now it’s just like”—he presses on his erection, pleasure sweeping through him as a wave, deeper than anything he’s felt before, even during his few fumbling attempts at sex—“It’s incredible.”

He can’t believe he’s doing this. Even more, he can’t believe Mr. Stark is still standing there, frozen. Encouraged, Peter grips himself more firmly through his pants, pulling down until the heel of his palm hits the base of his dick. He doesn’t hold back, letting out a throaty moan.

“Jesus,” Mr. Stark gasps. His eyes widen. Maybe it’s the drugs, but they look darker, too, and hungry. He licks his lips. “Pete, stop.”

Peter shakes his head, pushed on by false boldness and lust. Touch, even his own, familiar and not at all what he actually wants, is too good to stop. He strokes again, top to bottom, spreading his legs for easier access. The sensors on his wrists are tight; his mind won’t let go of their presence, because they were made by Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark put them on him, they’re the closest thing he has to Mr. Stark’s hands on him. The thought makes his dick jump.

“For your record,” he says, and his voice is unfamiliar, weighed down with a lust he’s never heard there before, “touch radiates through every inch of subject’s body.” He strokes again, harder, and then again. “He can feel it through his toes, up his spine, across his throat.”

Mr. Stark is still standing there, fingers drumming against his thighs. “Peter,” he rasps. It’s a warning, but also a confession: he sounds as wrecked as Peter feels.

Peter thinks about pulling his dick all the way out, but even under the influence of a buzzing high and the thrill of his own recklessness he’s not that brave. He shoves his hand into his pants, wrapping tight around his flesh, sensation of it piercing somewhere deeper than his deepest core.

“Fuck,” he gasps. He can feel his balls tightening. “Drug does not appear to have any effect on subject’s embarrassing hair trigger.” Wait. Why would he mention that? That’s so lame. He needs to do something about it. He fixes Mr. Stark dead in the eyes. “But that probably needs more testing, because subject suspects that if it weren’t for this drug, I’d have already come just from you looking at me like that.”

Mr. Stark closes the distance between them in an instant, one hand coming roughly to the back of Peter’s neck, the other landing at his thigh, yanking him forward until their dicks are flush. “Do it,” he growls into Peter’s ear. “Come.”

Peter doesn’t even need to move his hand: the words and Mr. Stark’s scent are enough to push him into a blinding orgasm. He falls forward into Mr. Stark’s arms as he screams, entire universe, for a moment, nothing but a blank wide plane of pleasure.

He’s had good orgasms before, but nothing like this. Nothing where it takes him moments on moments on moments to resurface after. When he finally does, mind not quite clearing—whatever is going on in his body is still hard at work, keeping everything distorted—but at least resolving back into consciousness, Mr. Stark is rocking into him, making small grunting sounds as his dick rubs against his thigh.

Tony Stark is rubbing himself off on him. That is a thing that is happening. It takes Peter several seconds to register the reality of it. When he does, he immediately removes his hand from his pants, wipes it on his shirt and grabs Mr. Stark’s dick. It’s thick, heavy and hard even through the rough fabric of his pants.

“Pete,” Mr. Stark moans, and he makes a move that’s half pulling away, half thrusting into Peter’s hand.

Peter wraps his free arm around Mr. Stark’s back, encouraging him to come closer. “Mr. Stark, I want you to.”

Mr. Stark make a helpless sound and falls against him. “I shouldn’t,” he whispers into his hair, but he doesn’t stop, arm wrapping around Peter’s back for purchase, rutting faster. “Fuck, kid, you’re irresistible.”

Peter whines, spent dick twitching in interest. He feels heady and dizzy with what he thinks is more than just the drugs. Power, maybe. He licks Mr. Stark’s throat again, the taste of him as perfect as it had been in the car. This time instead of shoving him away Mr. Stark groans, thrusting faster.

“Then don’t resist me,” Peter says, nipping at Mr. Stark’s ear. “This isn’t the drugs talking. You must know that. You can have me. Anytime, anywhere. All the time. I’m already yours, you know that, right?” He should be embarrassed, he sounds pathetic, but Mr. Stark is responding to his words, the hand on his thigh tightening, thrusts speeding up past rhythm into a desperate frenzy. “Please, Mr. Stark, please, god, please let me see you come.”

With a snarl, Mr. Stark bites Peter’s shoulder, hard and possessive; his hip jerks and a warmth spreads across Peter’s hand. He holds Peter close as he rides it out, thrusting past his hand against his belly. It’s overwhelming, the sound of his groans blending into the tight bruise of his grip, the sharp pain of his bite, the pleasure of his pleasure. It’s the best Peter has ever felt, and he’s counting the orgasm he had a few minutes ago.

Eventually Mr. Stark stumbles backward, breathing heavily. His hair is damp and out of place, skin slick with sweat. His eyes are wild, chasing around the lab as if looking for an escape.

“Peter, I—fuck, I shouldn’t—I’m sorry, kid. God, I’m so sorry.”

Peter snorts, either the drug or the triumph of what just happened enough to give him the courage to say, “Oh, shut up, Mr. Stark.”

That snaps Mr. Stark out of whatever spiral he was about to go down. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” Peter can’t see himself, but based on the state Mr. Stark is in, he must be a complete mess. He’s sure he looks ridiculous as he tries to give a determined glare, but hopefully it still gets his message across. “You don’t get to apologize for the best orgasm of my life. And you also don’t get to freak out right now, because I’m definitely still high and like, _really _hungry, so you totally need to take care of me.”

Mr. Stark gapes, mouth working at empty air until he finally settles on a response. “The fact that you’re still high doesn’t make me feel better about the orgasm part, kid. You get that, right?”

Peter wiggles his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. “I mean, I guess, but I promise that my completely sober self is a hundred percent on board with what just happened. Actually, I would like to, for the record, say that my sober self wants to discuss doing this again some time. Maybe a lot of times? I’m saying that now because my sober self might not have the guts. But I mean it.” In case there’s any question about it, he makes sure to look Mr. Stark dead in the eye as he adds, “I do want you, sir. Always. So that’s on the table. If you want me, too, you just have to take me. I’m _asking _you to take me.”

Mr. Stark holds the gaze a few beats before giving a decisive nod, expression transforming into something chipper and bright. “That got a little cheesy at the end there, but I’ll give you a pass because you’re young. F.R.I., could you order us a couple of—what do you want? Do burgers sound good?”

Peter nods, stunned at the tonal whiplash.

“Get us some burgers. And fries. A lot of fries. No coffee, though.”

“On it.”

“So…” Peter starts, but he’s not quite sure what to say. He kind of has no idea what just happened. “Are we…? What about…?”

Mr. Stark gives him a smile that’s soft, almost gentle. “We are currently going to get some food in you and actually monitor you like good, responsible superheroes.”

“Oh. Okay.” He tries not to sound disappointed. “Yeah, that sounds okay.”

That gets a quiet laugh, like it was exactly what Mr. Stark expected. “Kid, you didn’t let me finish. I said that’s what we’re _currently _going to do. As for the rest of it…well, I think Sober Peter and I should be the ones having that conversation, if that’s okay with you.”

Oh. Um. “Fine by me.” He adjusts his shirt, trying to smooth it. Not much he can do about the stains on his pants. “But could you maybe give me a sneak peek? Just a heads up about whether or not Sober Peter is going to like how the conversation goes?” He ducks his head and raises his eyes, doing his best to project the vulnerability he feels.

“You’re going to kill me,” Mr. Stark says, but it’s fond. He gets close enough to place a comforting hand on Peter’s knee. “Yeah, kid. God help me, I think he’s going to really like how that conversation goes.”

It’s definitely not the coffee that leaves Peter feeling like he’s floating on air for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Re-dated because it was anon for an exchange and now it has revealed. Sorry if you've seen it before!
> 
> As always, feedback is loved and appreciated.
> 
> Also: This was a lot of words that I wrote in very few hours given the nature of the exchange (which, for those who don't know, involved writing over the course of less than three days). I will not be offended (read: would find it very helpful) if you point out the inevitable typos I failed to catch.


End file.
